


Attitude Adjustment

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discipline, Other, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, personally, I don’t give a crap whether we get to it tonight,” Sam snapped, obviously frustrated.</p><p>So much for that. Dammit. In two steps, John was at Sam’s side, grabbing his arm to hold him steady as he delivered five stinging swats to the seat of his son’s jeans. The fourteen year old tried to jerk away as John’s hand connected with his rear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attitude Adjustment

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spanking fic, and contains teenaged Dean and Sam misbehaving on a training session and being punished for it. If that's not something you actively seek out, this will not be to your tastes.
> 
> The rest of you pervs, enjoy.

April 22, 1997

“Boo!” Dean exclaimed loudly, startling Sam more than the fourteen year old wanted to admit.

He hid the violent start by narrowing his eyes at his older brother. “Jerk.”

Dean leaned against the desk, smirking. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” he grinned. “Of course, if someone left me in a library for an hour, I’d be sleeping too. Get your crap. Dad’s waiting in the car.”

Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had been up late the night before, studying for the first half of his math exam. “Dad’s waiting? Why?”

“We’re training tonight,” Dean said. “There’s a full moon and Dad wanted to get some tracking in.”

“Well, you two have fun with that,” Sam said.

“You know damn well you’re coming with, Sammy,” Dean said repressively.

“And you know it’s a Tuesday,” Sam shot back. “I have school tomorrow, Dean, and moonrise won’t be until at least eight o’clock. I’ll be out way too late.”

“So I’ll write you a note,” Dean said dismissively.

“Well, write me a note to miss training, because I have to go to school tomorrow. I have a math test,” he insisted, gesturing at the notes on the desk.

“This’ll give you a whole ‘nother night to study. Now come on, you’re holding us up.”

“He wants us to train at night?” Sam moaned, reluctantly starting to gather his textbooks together. “Why can’t we just practice this weekend?”

“You know why,” said Dean. “Because when we go after the scary monster in the woods, we’re not gonna have the luxury of waiting till morning. So we train when it’s dark. You know, so we don’t die. That’s just how it works. Now haul ass, Sammy.” He strode off through the library without waiting for a response.

Sam stared at his brother’s retreating back, the muddy boots that were wreaking havoc on the library carpet, stomping loud enough to cause several disgruntled readers to send him nasty looks. Sam cast a longing glance at the stacks of books he’d pulled for English class, wondering what would happen if he didn’t follow Dean. The answer came quickly, and the thought of being swatted in the library was enough to make him jump to his feet.

As Sam slunk into the backseat of the Impala, he shot a nervous glance at his father. John was sitting taut at the wheel, impatient to be on his way. He knew it was useless from the posture and Dean’s earlier statements, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying anyway.

“Hey, Dad?” he queried, trying to sound collected.

“Yeah, Sammy?” John was cautious about responding. He could catch the hint of a plea in Sam’s voice, and he knew that unless he played this right, his youngest would be sulking for the entire hour’s drive, bitching through training instead of keeping his head in the game.

Sam took a deep, steadying breath. “I know there’s a full moon tonight, and, you want to do a full night’s worth of training,” he began calmly, “but I have a test tomorrow. Since the moon will still be full enough tomorrow night for us to practice tracking some, I think maybe we should just do some hand-to-hand today and get back earlier.”

“Storm’s coming through tomorrow afternoon,” John said, matter-of-factly. The kid responded pretty well to logic, as a general rule. “Tonight should be pretty clear. Might be awhile before we get conditions like this again.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. Sam was glaring, arms folded across his chest. “I’ll write you a note for school,” he said gruffly, resigning himself to the fact that his son was going to keep up the attitude for a while.

Sam didn’t answer, knowing that that if he did, he’d end up yelling or crying or probably both and Dad didn’t respond real well to those kinds of demands. He slumped down in his seat, squeezing his arms tight and watching the Pennsylvania landscape going by outside.

“Let’s have some music,” Dean said heartily, trying to break the tension. turning up the volume so that the violent strains of “Welcome to the Jungle” filled the tight space.

Sam cringed at the noise and sent a hard kick at the back of Dean’s seat.

“Jesus, Sam,” his brother said, turning around to scowl at him. “There’s no need to friggin’ kick the seat.”

Dammit, they care more about the car then they do about me, Sam thought self-pityingly. He glared, ready to respond.

John broke in before it could go any farther. “Sam, that’s enough attitude out of you,” he said with authority.

Sam exhaled loudly. _Of course. Dean was making the ride miserable, and he was the one getting in trouble. Just TYPICAL for Dad to take Dean’s side._

Apparently he was thinking loud enough for John to get the gist of those unvoiced thoughts. “I said that’s enough attitude, Samuel, unless you need me to pull over, because I’d be happy to,” he said, catching Sam’s eyes meaningfully in the mirror.

“Yessir.” His son’s voice was surly and resentful, but at least the boy wasn’t being openly rebellious.

John sighed, allowing himself a minute to think fondly of how Dean had been at that age—obedient, a quick study with the weapons, easy to trust with important orders. He looked over at the eighteen-year-old, drumming his fingers and nodding his head to Axl Rose. Things had always been harder with Sam.

“Why don’t you cut the volume, Dean,” he said firmly.

“Aw, man,” Dean complained, but he was already twisting the knob dutifully. Sending another glance to the backseat, John saw Sam’s rigid posture relax, but only slightly. It was going to be a long drive.

***

John parked the car a little way into the trees, away from prying eyes. Sam looked around skeptically, leaning moodily against the Impala, visibly reluctant. “Is there even anything to track?” he asked, disdainful.

“Sam, a lot of the creatures we hunt have near-human intelligence,” John lectured, taking his bags from the trunk, “and superhuman strength, speed and agility. Now, we’re not here to look for deer tracks, we’re here to train. We’ll be trailing one another, practicing both tracking and concealment.”

“Alright,” Dean crowed, “hide and go seek. I am so gonna kick your ass,” he bragged, smirking dangerously at his brother.

“Dean, this isn’t a game,” John warned sternly as Sam’s hackles rose. “Be on the lookout for gnomes, fairy rings, and bears,” he instructed. “Move out.”

He shut the trunk and set off deeper into the woods, closely followed by an enthusiastic Dean. Sam frowned as he lagged behind by several feet. _Of all the things to be doing while you skip school,_ he thought darkly, weaving between the trees.

They arrived at a partial clearing in what was obviously a younger part of the forest, with thin saplings and a good deal of light. Clusters of smooth stumps indicated that it was part of a reforestation effort. John put his pack down near the center, pulling out his journal. “Dean, Sam, I want you to build a shelter,” he directed. “Nothing fancy, just a place to sleep under cover.” He left them to it, constructing a perimeter of Anasazi symbols around the clearing.

Sam put his bag down as well, groaning a little at the prospect. Of all the things the ex-Marine had taught them, wilderness skills remained low on his list of favorite activities. He preferred research in quiet, air-conditioned libraries to scrabbling around in search of berries. Dean wasn’t exactly Ranger Rick, but he handled himself well enough, never really seeming to be out of his element. Sure enough, his older brother was already examining some of the youngest trees, knife in hand.

“Get your knife out, Sammy,” he ordered, starting to cut across one of the saplings with quick, easy strokes. “We’ve got some alder. It’ll be easy to make the basic structure of a kind of hut.”

Alder. Sam remembered that. Two years ago, in Vermont, John had given them the basic guidelines of botany. Plants used in rituals. Plants used for food. Plants used for survival. But even though the name was familiar, he couldn’t draw a clear picture of the tree. He walked cautiously to a sapling not far from Dean and knelt to saw through it. The wood was thick, and he could tell he was blunting the blade. He shuffled uncomfortably, embarrassed to ask for help and aware that sooner or later his father or brother would realize he had no idea what he was doing.

It was Dean, and it was sooner. “Sam, that’s not alder,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s black cherry, and you don’t want to go after it with a knife. Alder looks like this, see? It’s got these leaves with the crinkly, jagged edges, and they grow up alternate sides.”

“They’re called ‘serrated’ leaves, Dean,” Sam snapped, glancing over his shoulder to see if Dad had heard. “I know, I just wasn’t paying attention.” No one was fooled as he moved on to an actual alder tree. It was much easier to cut, he had to admit, and before long the boys had gathered enough wood to use as a frame for the shelter.

“And then we make the roof out of spruce boughs,” Dean finished, this time deliberately pointing to the evergreen. This work went even faster, since there was no need to whittle points to drive into the ground. Sam looked with some surprise on the finished shelter. While he would really have preferred one of John’s tents, it was big enough to sleep all three Winchesters, and Dean assured him that the fresh spruce would be fairly water-resistant if the storm came early. John looked it over, nodding his approval, and Dean glowed proudly.

Dad called them over, wanting them to memorize the sigil that would ward away forest specters. For once, Sam picked it up quicker than Dean and earned an approving nod from his Dad as he sketched the complicated image in the dust.

As Dean’s eyebrow furrowed and he finally drew the sign correctly, Sam’s stomach gave a loud rumble, and he realized how hungry he was. He glanced at his watch. It was almost six o’clock.

“Hey, Dad?” he asked, briefly forgetting to be annoyed. “Did you bring food?”

“We’re not having dinner yet, Sam,” his father said. “You and your brother need to work on your combat sport before it gets too dark.”

Sam sighed in exasperation. He had forgotten about that. “Daaad,” he moaned. “Can’t that WAIT?”

“Not if we want to get to it tonight,” John said firmly, hoping to God that his kid wasn’t going to turn this into another power struggle.

“Well, personally, I don’t give a crap whether we get to it tonight,” Sam snapped, obviously frustrated.

 _So much for that. Dammit._ In two steps, John was at Sam’s side, grabbing his arm to hold him steady as he delivered five stinging swats to the seat of his son’s jeans. The fourteen year old tried to jerk away as John’s hand connected with his rear.

“Oww!” Sam yelped, attempting to shield his butt from additional blows. He shot his father a venomous glower.

“You’ve been pushing the envelope since we got here, kid,” John said fiercely, giving Sam’s arm a little shake, “and if you don’t shape up, you’ll find yourself over my knee so fast it’ll make your head spin. Am I clear?”

“Fine,” Sam spat, and John landed two more hard spanks.

“I can cut a switch if you need me to, Samuel,” John threatened. “Lose the attitude,” he ordered, releasing his youngest. “And do a few stretches. You’re going to work on grappling.”

Sam bit back the hateful retorts on the tip of his tongue, knowing that John wouldn’t hesitate to administer a full-blown spanking on the spot and then make him train with a sore bottom. _All I wanted was a stupid sandwich,_ he thought savagely, turning his back so that no one could observe the glint in his eyes, doing a few half-hearted stretches. _And I want to go to school. You know, most parents would be thrilled to have a kid who got straight As. I get the only dad who’s disappointed._ He swallowed hard and channeled his emotions into the drills.

Grappling meant no weapons and no actual blows, which gave Dean a distinct advantage due to size and strength. He would pin Sam in three minutes flat, over and over until Dad was satisfied that Sam was too exhausted to hold his brother off for more than thirty seconds. Then Dad would lecture him about practicing more. _And I thought bow-hunting sucked._ At least with grappling, there was little chance of either boy getting hurt.

Sam bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, getting a feel for the uneven terrain. The ground was soft, littered with slick dead leaves and sharp twigs, interrupted every few feet by solid stumps. He stilled, forcing himself to listen for any sound of Dean approaching from behind.

A snapping twig gave Dean away, and Sam was easily able to slide out of his first attempt to seize the younger boy. He reached for Dean’s knees, trying to throw his brother off balance. Dean did fall to the ground, but not before catching Sam’s jacket and dragging him down as well.

Now it was true close quarter fighting, wrestling on the ground, limbs tangled together. Sam heard Dean give a grunt of pain as he rolled over a rock, but the struggle went on. Eventually Sam was able to roll Dean up against the trunk of a maple, but Dean propelled himself impressively into the air and ended up on top of his younger brother. Sam bucked underneath him, but the battle was lost.

Dean got up quickly, brushing the dead leaves from his clothes and smiling. “Not bad, kiddo,” he complimented. “Just remember, next time pin me before I get a chance to get loose.”

John clapped them both on the back. ‘Good job, boys,” he said, and for a moment Sam’s heart leapt with the hope that they were done. “Now, Sam, this time I want you to attack Dean.”

Sam swallowed his disappointment, along with the bitter frustration that kept bubbling up. He hated being smaller, being weaker. He set his jaw, trying not to see Dad’s calculating look. Though he managed to sneak up on his brother and briefly gained the upper hand, Dean had him pinned to a tree before long. As long as they remained standing, his longer legs made it no competition.

Twice more Dean pinned him, and each round got quicker and more one-sided as tiredness and hunger began to wear on the fourteen-year-old.

“Good job, Dean,” John said. “Sam, you can’t let him through your guard like that. I thought you’d been working on your footwork,” he scolded. The disappointment in his voice stung.

“All right, boys, let’s give it another round,” John barked, before Sam could protest.

Sam’s blood began to boil. _I am so freaking sick of grappling,_ he thought bitterly. _Nothing I do is ever good enough. I’m tired and hungry and it’s getting cold and I HATE training._ He was so mad, he just wanted to freaking hit something. So when Dean came at him again, he reacted instinctively, squirming from the hold and landing a hard punch to his gut.

Dean, for his part, reacted well to the switch from grappling to strikes. He planted a punch on Sam’s jaw, sending the kid reeling, knocking him backwards so that he tripped over a stump and landed hard, staring up at his approaching brother. Just as Sam drew up his knees for a kick to Dean’s groin, John was between them, breaking it up.

“Boys! BOYS!” he yelled, manhandling Dean out of the way. He released his oldest son, yanking Sam to his feet. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked angrily, looking from one to the other. Dean shrugged, a clear indication that he was willing to take the blame, but Sam knew that wouldn’t be fair.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “It was my fault,” he admitted in a low voice, scuffing a toe in the leafy underbrush.

“What was that, Samuel?” His father’s voice was intimidating, laced with wrath.

“It was my fault, okay?” Sam half-yelled, choking back tears of shame and dread. “I don’t know why, but I just hit Dean when he was coming at me and…and it just escalated! I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking.

John turned to his oldest son. “Dean?”

Dean shrugged, looking a little self-conscious, but unwilling to admit he’d made a mistake. “I don’t know, Dad, I just figured we’d been working on the grappling for a while and we could use a change of pace.”

“Yeah, well, you figured wrong, buddy,” John said darkly. “You boys know damn good and well that you only practice actual strikes under close supervision. When you’re grappling, there is _no_ cause for punching, kicking, or anything that potentially dangerous. You should both be clear on that.”

Sam winced at the censure in his father’s voice, and shuddered as John walked back to the stump in the middle of the clearing and sat down. He knew what was coming. His muscles spasmed, his breath came harsh and ragged, and he dug his fingernails into his palms. _Like this day could get any worse._

“Dean, you’re first,” John said firmly, training an eye on his youngest as he spoke. “Sam, you stand with your back against that maple tree there and don’t move. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said softly, his feet carrying him automatically to the tree his father had indicated. From where he stood, he had a clear view of his father and Dean, but he scrunched his eyes shut, not wanting to see. Within such close distance, however, there was no way to ignore the sounds.

“Do you know why you’re getting a spanking, Dean?” Dad sounded determined, implacable, and Sam could just see the stern lines on his face as he asked the dreaded question.

“Yessir. I broke protocol during training and could have injured myself or Sam.” At eighteen Dean was still ready to respond to his father’s demands, and willing to take the blame for things that weren’t even his fault.

 _He treats me like a little kid._ Sam thought, not wanting to need his brother’s protection.

“That’s right. I don’t care how you’re provoked; you do not attack your brother like that. Now get your jeans down and get over my knee.”

Sam squeezed his eyes tighter and put his fingers up to his ear, but the sound of flesh hitting flesh rang like gunfire through the still forest. It went on for what seemed like an eternity, increasing in volume and velocity near the end, until Dean was breathing heavily and apologizing, obviously getting the message loud and clear.

The smacks stopped as abruptly as they had started, and after a moment Sam peeked cautiously through his fingers. His father and brother were standing. Dean’s jeans were back in place, and John had his hand on his son’s shoulder. Sam realized, with a rush of jealous awe, that his brother hadn’t shed a tear.

“We’ll want some firewood tonight,” John said after a moment. “Dean, why don’t you go start a pile for us? Make sure you get good kindling, too. It might take some time.”

Sam’s stomach turned over sickeningly. Dad was sending Dean away for Sam’s spanking, which could only mean it would be one hell of a ride. _It’s not like you haven’t been asking for it,_ a little voice pointed out. He shuffled his feet.

“Yessir.” Dean was off like a shot, leaving Sam and John alone in the clearing.

“Samuel.” John’s voice was no longer angry, but it was stern and authoritative. Sam walked forward with all the enthusiasm of Dean faced with English homework.

His father sat down again, but he looked into Sam’s eyes, wanting to speak before starting the punishment. “What’s gotten into you, son?” he asked, and the tears sprang to Sam’s eyes again at the gentled tone.

“I don’t know,” he whined, hating the training, hating the impending spanking, hating how vulnerable his own voice sounded. “It…it’s everything…and…. I just don’t know!”

“You’re almost fourteen and you’re acting like a spoiled brat,” John said reprovingly. “You’re sulking, giving me lip, making training hell for me and your brother. Now you have to have some reason.”

“No, I don’t,” Sam said, feeling more inadequate by the minute, unable to give voice to his emotions. “I just…it was a really crappy day, I guess, and…I was just tired, and ready to quit, that’s all. I wasn’t thinking, n’ Dean is… he always… I just…” he finished lamely, dropping his gaze to where one foot was nervously toeing a root.

“It’s not easy to be fourteen,” John said gruffly, and Sam looked up again in surprise.

“No, sir,” he agreed, because it sure as hell wasn’t.

“It’s not easy to be growing up like this either,” John said, “but it’s not Dean’s fault he’s older, Sammy. He’s just trying to look out for you, in his own way. You can learn a lot from him.”

Sam nodded miserably. “I know,” he whispered, not able to meet his father’s gaze.

John sighed, “But Sam, this attitude of yours is going to earn you a trip over my knee, each and every time. I think you know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know I push you boys hard,” his father continued. “Maybe harder than I should, sometimes. But it’s all because I want to keep you safe. And for that, I need to keep you sharp. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded, because he did. “Yes, sir.”

“There are going to be times when you have bad days, when you’re tired, and hungry, and you’d rather be anywhere else. That’s a part of life, and it’s not anything to take a swing at your brother over.”

“No, sir,” Sam agreed. He really _did_ feel guilty about that. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he had a math test tomorrow or that he couldn’t remember what alder looked like or that he couldn’t seem to get anything right today. Dean had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had gotten sucker punched, then spanked for his trouble. And it was all _his_ fault, Sam thought miserably.

“All right, then.” With that, John moved his hands to Sam’s waist, and Sam felt himself flush. He was used to taking down his own pants for a spanking, and having it done for him made him feel more and more like the naughty little boy John accused him of being. As John guided him across his knees, he realized how grateful he was that Dean was gone. Knowing Dean, he was probably too deep into the woods to hear his little brother cry like a baby.

Sam squirmed as his briefs were whisked down to join his jeans, and the first slap of John’s hard hand across his bare skin made him whimper. The spanking was hard and fast, and within a remarkably short time his entire bottom ached and stung. But the swats kept landing.

“Owww!” he heard himself beg. “Dad, dad, please, I’m sorry! I won’t screw up training again, I promise!”

The light was fading somewhat, but John could tell that Sam’s behind was still a dusky pink to match the sunset. Despite the audible whines escaping his youngest son, the spanking was far from finished. He kept swatting, paying closest attention to the lower portion of Sam’s bottom and the tops of his thighs, which slowly darkened to an unmistakable red.

Sam tried his best to remain stoic, but he was miserable even before the spanking began, and it was no time at all before his whimpers became loud, shuddering sobs of repentance. He shook across his father’s lap as he cried, one hand reaching down to crush the dead leaves coating the forest floor, grounding him, one hand gripping tight to the cuff of John’s jeans. Every firm spank sent new pain coursing through his flaming bottom. “I’m sorry,” he cried again, the tears racing down his face. “Daddy, Daddy, I’m never gonna hit Dean again, I swear!”

Finally, as the pain was all running together into an unbearable throbbing, the spanking stopped. Sam’s cries continued, rising to a new crescendo as he felt his father slide his underwear back over the sore skin.

“Shh,” John soothed, placing a hand between Sam’s shoulder blades. “We’re done, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, over and over. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m so sorry…” He gulped for air, shaking his tear-streaked face.

“I know. It’s okay, Sammy.” John pulled Sam onto his lap, hugging him close, and Sam clung to him, his smaller frame still racked with sobs.

“Just breathe, baby,” John said, pressing the boy tight to his chest. He regretted pushing the boy so hard without food, resolved to make sure Sam got the sleep he needed tomorrow.

“I really am sorry,” Sam sniffled once more, looking into John’s eyes for the reassurance he yearned for.

“I know, buddy. You’re forgiven,” John promised, and Sam nodded with relief, drawing in a deep breath and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “I love you, Sammy, and I know you’re not going to pull that stunt again anytime soon.”

“No, sir,” Sam said, his voice still a little shaky.

“Now, what do you say we start unpacking the food? Your brother should find his way back soon, and he’ll be hungry.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said emphatically, quickly moving from John’s lap and pulling his jeans into their rightful place at his hips.

The sun was down, now, and the evening was chill and damp. John put a comforting hand on Sam’s back, guiding him over to the bare patch where they made a fire ring. John watched as Sammy quickly set up the fire, carefully piling on the small dry kindling and getting it lit with just one match.

When Sam glanced shyly at him, John smiled his approval, digging out a package of hotdogs.

Sam smiled back, whittling a point to his roasting stick. There was more work to do that night, but for the moment he had a clean slate. Soon he would have a full stomach, and even if it came at the price of a sore bottom, he was secure in his father’s care. It was all he had really wanted, anyway.


End file.
